


a call like blood and forests

by hopeisathingwithwings



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha Kylo Ren, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Forest Sex, I’m shit at tagging, More tags to come as I get my shit together, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Not Beta Read, Omega Rey (Star Wars), Oral Sex, Predator/Prey, Reylo - Freeform, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, We Die Like Men, dub con but only if you squint, got surprisingly soft, that’s not what rey said
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25159885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeisathingwithwings/pseuds/hopeisathingwithwings
Summary: The women stand on platforms in silence, their faces a study of humanity. Here anger. There desire. Fear. Defeat. Ambition. Need. Hope. Their stories are all different, merging only now, in the warm glow of spotlit pedestals and the quiet tension of the moment.The men walk among the platforms, inner animals tightly leashed. No foul play in the Hall. Only a snap of teeth here, a low growl there.They are circling their prey, readying for the hunt. The combined scent of the women is intoxicating, disorienting, undeniable,—it sings to the beast inside in a language of sweet blood and dark forests. Everyone is affected. Everyone can feel that strange, ancient imperative pounding in their veins.Everyone but one.He will not hunt. He will not lose control. He will not. He is here only because his master demands it. The others stay far from the big man and his searing, whiskey-dark eyes. They know who he works for. They know what he’s done.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 25
Kudos: 167





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because sometimes we all need Adam Driver to chase us through some woods. Or is that just me?

The women stand on platforms in silence, their faces a study of humanity. Here anger. There desire. Fear. Defeat. Ambition. Need. Hope. Their stories are all different, merging only now, in the warm glow of spotlit pedestals and the quiet tension of the moment.

The men walk among the platforms, inner animals tightly leashed. _ No foul play in the Hall. _ Only a snap of teeth here, a low growl there.

They are circling their prey, readying for the hunt. The combined scent of the women is intoxicating, disorienting, undeniable—it sings to the beasts inside in a language of sweet blood and dark forests. Everyone is affected. Everyone can feel that strange, ancient imperative pounding in their veins.

Everyone but one.

He will not hunt. He will not lose control. He will not. He is here only because he must be. The others stay far from the big man and his searing, whiskey-dark eyes. They know who he works for. They know what he’s done.

His full, soft lips curve at the edges as they avert their gazes. They are cowards, children playing tag in the woods. 

A chime sounds and the men step to the wall, clearing a path for the women, who climb from their pedestals, thin pastel gowns sighing and whispering with their movements.They are headed to the door, into the night, into the unknown. It is more than some of the men can bear: several shuck off jackets, loosen ties, half-wild. One whines, grabs for the gauzy blue skirt of the nearest female.

It is a mistake.

The other men surround him, fists and fury, his lapse an outlet for their own cracking restraint. There are thuds and groans, and red spatters the floor.

The girl falls to her knees, panic in her wide eyes, limbs quivering. Heads snap toward her; eyes narrow. Another woman—stunning in white, taller than the others, lean—pulls her to her feet, softly urges her on, but the blood is in the water.

She will be caught quickly.

Another chime peals and then, in a swirl of chiffon, they are gone, vanished into the cool blackness, the men left to prowl restlessly at threshold.

It is instinct to pursue. But that is not how the game is played. Money has been spent, rules established: the women get a head start, you keep what you catch.  


There aren’t enough to go around. There never are. And so the men move with restless energy, eyeing each other, snarling, posturing.

He does not pace, does not move. He leans against the wall and checks his watch, tired of the spectacle. It is empty and small. Everything is, these days. He closes his eyes.

It starts slowly, a tickle in the back of his throat, an itch on his neck.

The wind whistles through the door, thinning the overwhelming cloud of scents until the hunters can breathe more freely.

Through the cool, crisp air, one scent carries; it’s something like cinnamon and molasses, something like the cookies his grandmother baked when he was a child, her kitchen cluttered and warm. He hasn’t thought of that scent in years, hadn’t known it lived somewhere deep in his memory. Now that he has it back, he doesn’t understand how he could have lived without it. 

Without realizing it, he moves to the open door, parting the crowd easily. He is bigger, stronger; this is the currency of the world. The others grumble, but his low growl silences them. 

Eyes closed, head cocked, he inhales deeply.

The breeze carries her to him then. The spice. The deep sweetness. Something bright that tastes like defiance.

_Mine_.

The chime sounds and the men surge forward, their voices raised to the night, their feet pounding the hard dirt. 

He has never heard the call. In all the years Snoke forced him to attend the Hunt, he has never smelled anything more than pathetic desperation, cloying and sticky. Maybe he thought he was above it. Maybe he thought he was too broken. Maybe he never thought he could deserve it. But now—now it tears through him, a need that sends him hurtling through tangled branches, dodging between thick, dark trunks.

_Mine_.

She is deep in the woods, somewhere, woods that teem with animals who would take her—claim her—who couldn’t possibly give her what she needs.  


Because she needs him. 

No one has ever needed him. He is violence and anger, a darkness that consumes. And yet he thinks she might need him.

He thinks he might need her.

What if she doesn’t know he is coming for her? What if she let’s one of those little boys catch her, lets them get their scent on her skin, lets them inside her?

_Mine_.

The idea of someone else finding her first turns his stomach, bile rising in his throat. _Hands touching what is his. Lips tasting her lips. A tongue dragging through the slick running down her thighs._ He bares his teeth; moves faster.

He is power and motion, speed and determination. Thorns tear his dark sweater, branches scrape his pale skin, but for him there is only his prey, only the animal snarling in his chest.  
  


*******

She has never felt it before—the empty ache, the fever, the panic—but she knows its name. She will not say the word, will not think it; instead, she runs from it.

Her feet fly over the ground.

They wouldn’t let her wear shoes, so she tore the cumbersome skirt of her gown into strips, tied them abound her feet. 

She knows it won’t make a difference in the long run. Someone will catch her, eventually; they’ve paid for the pleasure, she signed all the forms, but the act of defiance is wind at her back, air in her lungs.  


If she could be docile, if her soul didn’t chafe at every attempt to tame her, she wouldn’t be here. If she were not wrong in all the ways that seemed to matter—  


So she chose this: to run, to be claimed by only one who can catch her. 

To be caught by someone who understands that she will not go easily. 

But she is beginning to think that someone is not here. The men behind her are not _him_. She can smell them: One stinks like soured wine. One like licorice. One like damp earth. She can taste the bitter tang of their scents spiking. Close. Too close. 

They are not hers.

She runs faster.

The night air is cool, but sweat gathers on the bridge of her nose anyway, slides in droplets between her breasts, soaks the fabric of her bodice; it is too much, the scratch and cling. She tears at it, shreds the delicate chiffon until it falls away, until the soft breeze caresses her skin.

She hears them find it, hears the shouts and the snarls. Someone cries out and the group falls just slightly further back—dogs squabbling over scraps.

She should be embarrassed—running in the woods in only flimsy underthings, rags wrapping her feet—but she feels powerful, invincible.

They cannot catch her. They are not worthy.

She is a blur of golden skin, chestnut waves, and lithe limbs, turning back to mock their attempts. 

She doesn’t see him. Doesn’t know how he got in front of her. But he is there, suddenly, arms closing around her like iron bands, crushing her against the hard planes of a broad chest.

“Mine,” he growls, low, deceptively soft; she almost agrees with him, almost bares her neck in submission.

_Yes. Yours.  
_

But that has never been her way.

She thrashes, scratches, snaps, but every lungful of air scalds her. It is a match to dry grass.  


His scent—like campfire and coffee—envelopes her senses. Where her body had stood at the waterline of this vast, powerful, unnamed thing, now she is dragged below the waves, thrust into the rush and confusion and overwhelming power of it: the fever, the terrible emptiness, the pull toward him, the gush of slick coating her thighs. It is too much. It will drown her.

He must smell the change. He clutches her more tightly, head swinging from side to side in his own panic.

”I have you. I have you,” he murmurs, “I’ll kill them all. They won’t fucking _touch_ you.”

The voices are getting closer. The tangled, noxious cloud of their smells grows stronger.

Pupils blown, teeth bared, he shoves her behind him, pinning her between his broad back and a gnarled tree trunk, planting his feet, hands loose at his sides. His jaw is tight, eyes narrowed. He will kill them all, rip them to pieces for even thinking about taking what is his.

They burst through through the trees, eyes wild and unseeing, lips curling, teeth flashing. Not one of them can match him. They know this—they are a pack for now, allied against the larger predator. The three hunters encircle the pair. Everything is still, the forest holds its breath.

She cannot help but see the way his shoulders move beneath his dark sweater, cannot help but note how big his hands are. Her body—traitorous—responds, drenches her thighs with a new wave of slick.

It breaks the moment, sends the three into motion, all grasping hands, snapping teeth, and wild swings as they launch themselves forward.

He moves with grace and confidence. One man falls, clutching his collarbone, snapped like a twig.   
  
He strikes with brute force and no mercy. A second man collapses, his face obscured by a curtain of blood.

In one fluid movement, he turns to dispatch the third. But he is already lying face down in the mud, the woman on his back, her slim fingers around his throat. She looks up at him, hazel eyes wide, pink lips parted, breath coming hard. The body beneath her is still. Slowly, cheeks flushed with fever and exertion, she stands, hands balled at her sides, her wary eyes locked on his.

He has never seen a sight more beautiful than this fierce little thing. 

_Worthy._

_Mine._

There is that something in the air again. He recognizes it from before just a moment too late. He moves just a little too slowly.

And she is running, the bright scent of her rebellion filling his senses.

She runs. 

Grinning, he gives chase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if he’ll catch her. 
> 
> Probably not. I’m sure the next chapter is just bird watching.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All right. First time writing a/b/o. Second fanfic ever. I’m gonna ask you to approach this with the same energy you would a sweet, baby porg. 🥺

It was so easy to run before, so simple. She ran, a gazelle from lions, because to be caught was to lose her life, to surrender her future to unworthy scents, unwanted nights trapped beneath an unwanted man. Locked together. She'd run to escape them.

Fear had pushed her forward: fear bred into her blood over the centuries, fear of being claimed by someone repulsive to her on a cellular level, fear of who they would want her to be. Running had been the simple choice. 

It is more complicated now, more difficult to remember why she is running. There is still fear; she had seen the dark joy, the burning triumph in his eyes as he ruined the challengers, as he watched her hands wring the breath from the last hunter. 

She should be afraid--is afraid--but her thighs are running with slick, her skin aching to feel his hands against her again, her chest full of pride that he is so strong, so powerful, that he seemed so very pleased with her. 

And so it is difficult to remember why she is running from him. 

Her legs burn with the effort, her heart throbbing. The world is a blur of pine needles and tree trunks and tangled branches. She has no idea how long she has been running, but she knows she is slowing. Her skin feels as though it is trying to contain lightning. Sharp, painful spasms rip through her core, make her long to stop, to find a little relief. 

_ Just a little relief. _

_ Just something to fill the emptiness. _

_ He could help. He could make it better.   
_

_ His fingers. His tongue. His knot. _

But she can’t stop running. It is all she knows how to do, the only way she has been able to eat, to stay alive. _Keep moving. Fight. Never go easy._

And so she can’t stop. She doesn’t know how.

Her feet skitter over dewy grass, sink into muddy earth. Pulse pounding, lungs bursting, fear thundering in her veins, she hurls her body through the night, a creature of adrenaline and instinct.

He doesn’t call out to her as the others had. He doesn’t snarl or howl or swear. The silence of his pursuit is unsettling—just the occasional rustle of the undergrowth. She runs into the wind, cannot even smell him. He could anywhere. Could be nowhere. 

She knows he could catch her—remembers long, powerfully muscled legs, remembers his wide chest barely rising and falling after catching her the first time. She thinks again of the burning look he’d given her as she choked the unworthy one, the intensity in the molten amber depths. 

_ He could catch her.  _

_ But he hasn’t.  _

_ Maybe he doesn’t want to. Maybe he isn’t even there. Maybe she isn’t worth it.  _

She has never been worth it. Not to her parents, who left her at a bus station when she was four. Not to the men she meets through designation services, who want her to shut up and do as she’s told. Why would he be different? For a moment she had let herself think he’d be different. 

A cramp twists through her guts, interrupts the spiral of anxiety and doubt, causing her to stumble, filling her eyes with tears of frustration, need, confusion. 

“Stop.” His deep voice is softness and steel, so much closer than she would have guessed; it calls to her on an elemental level, demands her obedience, stills her a moment. 

She takes another determined step, but it’s like she’s running underwater now. Every inch away from him is agony, tears her apart. She grits her teeth, moves forward.

“Be still, fierce one.” The voice comes from only inches behind her, its rumbling inevitability—thunder before the storm—soothing something in her, giving her permission she desperately needs to stop fighting him. 

Tears glistening on her cheeks, pulse pounding, she stops, turns.

*******

He has never hunted before. Never wanted to. But this isn’t about wanting; it is primal, inexorable. He hunts because she is his, a part of him living outside his body. Or maybe he is a part of her, trying to return home. It doesn’t matter. He hunts because he  _needs_ to, needs  _her_.

She is breathtaking in her flight, mesmerizing in her fierce determination. Her long sun-kissed legs, her small breasts covered only by a scrap of blush pink lace; _so fucking perfect_. He could follow her like that forever. He does for a while, keeping pace just behind her, sucking in lungfuls of her scent which is somehow getting better every minute—deeper, richer—it makes his teeth ache to sink into her, makes his cock throb with need. 

Until it doesn’t. A bitterness weaves through the sweet spice of her; it makes his stomach churn, makes every inch of his skin crawl, makes him bare his teeth in a silent snarl.   


He has caused enough pain, enough hopelessness to know its flavor. She is his, and she tastes like she is breaking apart.

_Hurting.  Protect. _

She sobs once, quiet and aching—it is years of neglect and doubt and pain, and he will end whoever did this to her, whoever put this hurt so deep in her—and the command leaves his lips. 

He tries for kindness, the softness of it strange in his tongue, nostalgic. It reminds him of a boy who died, a past he killed.

”Stop.”

She fights for every inch, teeth clenched, muscles taught as they force her forward.  


She shouldn’t be able to, should be bent to his will. She shouldn’t even be upright with the way she smells, shouldn’t be able to think. He’s seen them before—pathetic, whining, clinging—and it has always repulsed him. Not her though. 

_So strong, so remarkable, his girl. Worthy. Powerful._

But he can feel now how her body screams for him even if she fights it, can feel it in his bones, the wrongness of having her so close, so empty. 

“Be still, fierce one.” He puts all of his will behind the words. He wraps them around her like a soft blanket, like a caress.   


If only she’ll stop. If only she’ll let him help. If only he can try to prove he’s worthy too.

She turns.

*******

The blazing look in his eyes— _want and determination and victory_—locks her in place; the forest fades when he looks at her that way, the world fades. Long dimples frame his soft, lopsided smile as his gaze rakes over her.

”Why did you attack that man?” he asks, voice so low it is almost a purr.   


“I don’t know,” she responds quietly, unable to look away.

”Try again. I can smell the lie.”

She doesn’t want to say, knows it gives too much away. But she doesn’t want to deny him either, wants to give him everything.  


“He was coming up behind you—“ she breathes deeply, his scent comforting even as it lights more fires under her skin, “and I didn’t want him.”

“Come here.” It isn’t a command, but the intense, hungry look in his eyes pulls at her anyway.

Chest tight, she breathes in the smoky, warm scent of him; close, it’s so much worse, so much better. She’s dizzy with it, ravenous for it. Thighs press together—the throb of her emptiness is too much; she has always felt empty, but this is different, feels so deep inside she thinks it may be rooted in her soul.

She takes a halting step toward him without meaning to, closing her eyes to breathe him in more deeply, unable to stop now, needing more, always more of him. 

Like a response to a silent question, something on the back of her neck awakens, achy and itching and tender.

She thinks she knows what would make it better. She thinks of sharp teeth and bright blood, of lips smeared with red.

He eases forward slowly, like she might run again, eyes narrowed and lips parted. 

Even in the dark, she can see that he’s beautiful—his face all angles and long planes, his features too strong, his ears too pronounced, his lips too pouted—it should be too much, this face. But instead it is compelling, mesmerizing. 

How could she have lived her whole life without knowing the constellations of birthmarks dotting his pale skin, without those dark eyes devouring her? She has known them for only hours but they are burned into her memory, indelible, perfect in every detail.

He is still edging closer, still chasing her. Like he had been all night. 

_ Strong. Determined.  _

_Mine_. 

She closes the space between them, pressing her face to his broad chest, the fire in her veins ebbing slightly at the contact. But she wants— _needs_ —more, sliding her hands beneath his dark sweater, feeling her way up his flat, hard stomach, spreading her fingers across the impossible breadth of his chest.   


_ So big. So strong.  
_

_Worthy. _

Maybe she says it out loud because he swears and strips the shirt over his head in a single, graceful motion, tossing it away like it’s scalded him. She tugs at the button of his dark jeans and he wrenches those off too.  


Bare, he is a work of art, an ivory statue dappled with the moonlight through the leaves, sculpted in the image of a god; every scar, every birthmark feels intentional, perfect in their imperfection, and she wants to taste each of them, needs to run her tongue over every inch of him.

Then she is crushed against him again, the heat of him exactly what she needs on her overheated skin, his hands tracing their way up and down her sides, dragging where lace impedes his progress; he unhooks her bralette, watching as the fabric falls away to reveal small, round breasts, pebbled punk nipples. Breath ragged, pupils blown wide, he stares down at her, leaning closer, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, tongue flicking out to tease close—so close—to where he might sink his teeth, where he might claim her. 

“I’ll never be like the others,” she whispers without knowing why she needs him to understand this, why she’s still warning him away. 

“I’ve never wanted the others,” his voice is gravelly, his mouth just brushing over the sensitive place below her ear. “Only you.”

“I’m difficult.” The words are spoken against the pale, cool skin over his heart, spoken even as she trails fingertips over outline of his rigid length, even as she tilts her head to bare her throat for him.

“So am I.” He makes a pained noise—half growl, half moan—his hips grinding against her like he can’t stop—and he can’t stop, will never stop. “Didn’t I follow you. Didn’t I choose you. Don’t you feel it.” These are not questions, but promises rumbled against the shell of her ear, his breath sending electric frissons dancing across her skin, her body releasing a new wave of arousal. 

“Yes,” she breathes. “I feel it too.”

But then she doubles over, slender arms cradling her abdomen, and he cannot hold back the beast that snarls at him to be released, to give her what she needs. 

She’s not sure how, but she is suddenly on her back in the grass and earth, his big hands pulling the muddy wrappings from her feet, shredding lace as he bares her cunt to him. 

“So fucking perfect,” he murmurs reverently, tracing a finger up her pretty pink slit. She moans at the too-gentle touch, arching her back for more, closing her eyes tight.  


“No,” he growls, “watch.” 

Her eyes lock on where he’s stroking her, on his long, thick digits parting her drenched folds, on his finger sliding easily into her warm, wet center. She gasps at the press of one, two fingers, curving up to stroke a place deep inside of her that makes her vision gray around the edges. He pumps them into her without hurry, his hungry eyes raking over every flushed inch of body, the steady thrusting into her core making her buck her hips against his hand with impatience. She can’t look away, can’t tear her eyes from where he disappears into her, stretching her but not enough, not what she needs.  


He likes that she does not whimper, her voice a tense whispered _please,_ the sincerity of it going straight to his cock. It’s painful how hard he is now, how badly he needs to be inside her, to fill her.  


But he thinks she may need to chase him for a while, to chase her pleasure. He will give her what she needs.   


He will give her everything.

“Patience,” he whispers, pulling his hand from between her legs to lave his tongue over the slick gathered there, the heady, concentrated sweetness of her making his eyes roll back. Her low moan might be at the loss of his touch or at the sight of him savoring every drop of her arousal or some combination of the two, but it dies quickly as he lowers his mouth to her dripping heat. Air hisses from between his clenched teeth as a fresh outpouring of slick coats her soft, pink center. She watches him give a long, slow lick up her cunt, a shiver wracking her body. 

She has never seen anything more beautiful than his thick, dark waves moving between her thighs, his big hands holding her open to him.

He has never seen anything more beautiful than the way the hazel in her eyes surrenders to the blackness of her blown pupils as he laps slick from the source, nose nudging her clit.

His tongue moves against her with devotion, delving into her, then flicking up to circle the oversensitive bundle of nerves just above; groaning against her skin, his pace becoming more and more frenzied, he ruts against the hard ground beneath them, chasing friction— _anything, everything_ —dark briefs straining to contain his throbbing erection. He feasts on her, loses himself in the way her scent coats his tongue, in the breathy cries that he wrings from her, echoing into the cool night air. He is going to live and die with his tongue buried in her cunt, going to know no other world than the one between her legs as she writhes against his face.

She is lost in him too, all of her awareness focused on the wet heat of his mouth, the almost-enough press of three fingers into her core, stroking her inner walls relentlessly, the feeling of something coiling somewhere in her abdomen— _tighter and tighter and she’ll surely break into a million pieces but oh how she wants to break_ —every lap of his tongue somehow both easing and stoking the flames inside her. His lips wrap around her clit, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks it hard into his mouth— _again, again_ —her hips canting wildly against him, her entire being straining toward something bright and wild and right. It crashes over her, drowns her in mind-numbing bliss, slick poring from her as he works her through every last shiver and convulsion, until she is pliant, sated with pleasure for a moment, the ancient call temporarily silenced.

“Mine,” he says quietly, firmly, drinking in every drop of arousal, eyes fierce, dark with possessiveness. Kicking out of his underwear, he climbs his way up her still-shuddering body, caging her with his thick biceps, hips flush against hers. 

She reaches between them—mouth finding his gland, tracing it with her tongue as he moans quietly—trying to wrap her fingers around his cock. “Mine,” she whispers against the feverish, red skin on his neck, letting her teeth just graze it. She runs her fingers lightly up and down his shaft before wrapping her hand around him again, slowly stroking up and down his considerable length.

Growling, he thrusts against her folds, coating himself with her, the sensation against the still-singing nerves in her clit making her walls clench around nothing, the aching emptiness of her body demanding satisfaction, demanding him. “Need you,” she breathes, lifting her hips to try to impale herself on his length.

It’s almost an order. Almost a demand.

His master would want him to punish her, dominate her, show her how powerful he is, how powerless she is. It is how Snoke trained him, how he became this shadow, this monster. 

He doesn’t know anything else, has carved a life out of violence and fear, dominance and control. His blade is merciless, his hands stained red.

_Not her. Protect. Give her everything._

One hand on her abdomen presses her back against the cool, damp ground; he eases into her.

*******  
  


There are books about this—tomes that detail the why and how in neat print, in meticulous detail. He’s read them.

It was like reading about flying when you have no wings.

The reality of his cock burying itself in her wet heat is so much more. She is tight and hot and wet, gripping him as he drags against her walls, holding him as he slowly draws back out, only to ram back into her. Again and again he almost pulls out of her, again and again he crashes back into her, feeling how she clenches and thrusts into his motion, feeling how the force of his movements push her away, making him chase her a little each time. He is lost to it, drunk on the soft moans and gasps she makes only for him, only ever for him, addicted already to being inside her.

”So full, so perfect,” she whispers, and his lips crash against hers; he knows she tastes herself on his tongue, knows she tastes _them_. She moans into his mouth, and it erases all coherent thought from his mind. His hips slam against hers, the sound of their bodies coming together indecent and so perfect. Every jerk of his hips increases their pace, and his mouth moves desperately over her, sucking her nipples to hard points, laving at her glands until she is keening, until her nails dig deep grooves across his shoulders. Everything is sensation. Everything is her. 

He is tongue and teeth and cock and hands. They are animals of instinct and ancient truths, rutting into each other in the woods, bodies streaked with blood and slick and earth. They are eternal, born to do this and only this.

He can feel when she’s close again, the way her insides shiver and shudder around his cock, the way she tenses every muscle around him, the way her breaths stutter and hiss.

She screams into the darkness when she comes. 

Thrusting erratically, frenzied, he feels his body coming apart at the seams, like this blinding tension building in his balls will shatter him into a million pieces and he wants it, craves it, the way she unmaking him. Her walls continue to shudder around him as her orgasm goes on and on, and he’s following her, swelling, his knot locking their bodies together, filling her to the brim. And she is the only thing holding him together, the tight press of her around him the only real thing left in the world. 

He tastes copper and cinnamon and molasses when he sinks his teeth into her gland, so strong it fills every corner of him, searing as it washes through his veins. Rope after rope of cum shoot into her as blinding pleasure—sharp, complete—floods his body. His vision goes white as his entire world reorients around the woman whose blood is staining his lips dark red.

She is everything—a dizzying swirl of stars, the warm glow of firelight, the fierce blaze of the sun. He feels her now—the tangle of hope and fear and passion and kindness that is her soul—it is all inside if him. She is everywhere. 

She is everything.   
  


*******

It’s sharp and quick, the pain—erased the moment her own teeth break skin and his blood floods her mouth.

He fills her in every way possible, remakes her understanding of the world. He is the moment before she falls asleep, when bones melt into mattress and thoughts drift in a warm haze. He is the heady glow of drinking too much red wine, the world soft and kind and spinning. He is a crackling red fire, dangerous and powerful and burning with passion. He is the vast sprawl of stars, overwhelming and beautiful and all-encompassing.   


She hears echoes of his thoughts in her bones, feels his emotions like a phantom limb.

He is everywhere. He is everything. 

*******  
  


The birds start singing, and they know it’s time to leave. She wears his sweater, his underwear. He cradles her to his chest, unwilling to let her walk without shoes. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t feel trapped, only wanted. 

“Rey,” she says abruptly, her voice a little hoarse. “My name is Rey.” 

She would blush that he didn’t know her name earlier, but he knows everything else, everything that matters.

”Ben,” he whispers, unsure why he gives her that name, a name dead to everyone, dead to him. He looks down at her, her head nestled beneath his chin, “I guess this is one way to keep you from running.” His mouth twists into a little smile.

”I don’t want to run from you.” She smiles back, a fragile, shy offering, “But maybe with you.”

A laugh sounds in his chest, quiet and rumbling and full of dark promises: ”I can keep up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, just a massive, Adam Driver-sized thank you! I’m pretty new to writing fanfic, and appreciate you so much 💜💜💜


End file.
